


Halcyon Years

by KivaEmber



Series: Shadow Ops AU [4]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Healthy Relationships, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Married Couple, Married Life, Panic Attacks, Phobias, Post-Persona 5: The Royal, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shadow Ops Akechi, Slice of Life, Ten Years Later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:22:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26214058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KivaEmber/pseuds/KivaEmber
Summary: Ten years of this shit, and he was still weak to it.or;Akechi has the unenviable task of wrangling Akira to the doctors to get his flu jabs, granting a glimpse into their relationship ten years after the events of Royal.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Series: Shadow Ops AU [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1864810
Comments: 9
Kudos: 433





	Halcyon Years

It was nine in the morning and Akira was deep cleaning their apartment. 

Goro supervised this from his lofty perch called the breakfast bar stool, sipping his coffee while absently flipping through a glossy magazine dug up from underneath their sofa. It was dated 2017 and had a picture of him on the front page, complete with the glaring red headline of: _‘DESTROYED BY FAME! AKECHI GORO’S FALL FROM GRACE!’_

“They actually used the mugshot,” he muttered, squinting at it. The visually loud cover of the magazine ruined the effect with its brightly coloured headlines and advertising strip, but the mugshot was leagues different to the polite, beaming face that the Detective Prince facade had been built upon. In this he looked _feral,_ his hair dishevelled, dark smudges under his eyes from too many sleepless nights, and mouth twisted into a snarl like he was preparing to leap at the cameraman and rip his throat out with his teeth. 

Curiously, Goro flipped to the page to see what this gossip rag said about him. The words _‘abused orphan’_ , _‘mental breakdown’_ and _‘tragic past’_ were bandied about a lot. Ugh. Disgusting. 

Before, this would have had him in a frothing fury. This pity and inane gossiping, strangers entertaining themselves in picking at the carcass that was his reputation and life without a care about him - but it’s been literal years, almost a decade, now, thinking on it, and Goro just felt an exhausted, disdainful sort of amusement about it all. 

No one knew who Akechi Goro was anymore, and that was the way he liked it. 

He flipped the page and began reading his out of date horoscope instead. 

_“Your companions aren't likely to be thinking straight and may not respond to reassurance, Gemini,”_ the horoscope said, _“use your intuition to find the best way to defuse the situation.”_

Huh. That was disturbingly relevant. 

_then again, a broken clock is right twice a day,_ Goro thought wryly, scanning the rest of his horoscope. His love match was an Aries, and his ‘card of the week’ was the Tower. He also had four stars in ‘sex’ and two in ‘vibe’, and he wasn’t sure if wanted to know what that meant. 

“Do you want to know what your horoscope is today, Akira?” he called idly, glancing over to see that his partner was very intently polishing their coffee table. Its surface almost resembled a mirror.

“Yeah, sure,” Akira said distractedly. 

“ _Changes taking place in your home could cause some temporary frustration and tense nerves on your loved ones, Aries,”_ Goro drawled, _“Perhaps you're refurbishing, or trying to do a thorough cleaning, and everyone is getting into everyone else's way. Just try to get the job done as quickly as possible, and all will be well.”_

Akira stopped his polishing and looked up to stare at him. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, so Goro was blessed with those pretty eyes blinking owlishly at him. 

“Your love match is an Aquarius and your card is the Tower, by the way,” Goro added - and did a double take, “Wait, your love match is an _Aquarius_?”

“My heart will always belong to Yusuke,” Akira said without missing a beat, and looked back at the gleaming coffee table, “Does this look clean to you?”

Goro ignored the question, “What do you mean _Yusuke?”_

“Have you seen his face?”

Goro couldn’t really argue that. He has, indeed, seen his face. 

He checked Yusuke’s horoscope, and it said his love match was with a Scorpio - which was Ann.

“Alas, his heart seemingly belongs to Ann,” Goro said, “We’re trapped in a love-pentagon.” 

“Is Ann in love with you?”

Goro checked. 

“She loves a mystery Leo,” he declared, “A love-hexagon then.”

“I bet it’s Shiho,” Akira said, and stood up from his lazy squat. His knees audibly clicked, “Argh. Ow. I’m so old.”

“You’re twenty-eight.”

“Yeah. Old,” Akira twisted the dust cloth in his hand, his eyes roving their small apartment in search of something else to polish to blinding levels, “Hm, the window-”

“Akira,” Goro flicked the magazine shut and stood up from his stool, “That’s enough procrastination. We have an appointment to keep, remember?”

Akira laughed and waved him off, “I’m not procrastinating!”

Goro stared him down, stone-faced. 

“... I’m not,” Akira protested weakly. 

“We can do this the hard way, or the easy way, _Joker_ ,” Goro purred, casually cracking his neck before levelling his increasingly flustered partner with a heavy-lidded look, one hand on his hip, “Which will you choose?”

“Okay,” Akira rasped, his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly, “That was very sexy just now, so, uh.”

“Joker,” Goro said, refusing to be distracted, “answer the question. _”_

Akira stared at him for a good, solid moment. 

“Hard. The hard way,” he finally said with a stubborn tilt to his jaw. He was enjoying the tension, the little shit. 

“Hmmm…” 

Their apartment wasn’t large, so it took only a few lazy strides to get right into Akira’s personal space. Their chests bumped, they were nose to nose, and this close Goro could see the faint dusting of freckles that graced Akira’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose this late into the tailend of summer. He had an overwhelming urge to kiss them, but held back.

“What’s your plan, Crow?” Akira murmured breathlessly, his eyes dark with anticipation. 

“My plan is… _this,_ ” Goro leaned in, his eyes fluttering closed - felt the tickle of Akira’s eyelashes against his cheeks as their lips gently brushed in a barely there kiss. The moment felt delicate, and as always there was a part of him that marvelled at how he could _have this,_ when ten years before he hadn’t thought of his life beyond Shido’s ruin. 

There were days where he was still expecting to wake up and discover it was all a dream, or an extension of Maruki’s actualisation - something too good to be true and undeserved for someone like him. But it wasn’t, and it was terrifying to tell himself that it was all real and all his ( _to break and ruin again_ ), yet he was too selfish to deny himself it either. Goro had always been a greedy child, always wanting more. 

Akira made a low, displeased noise when Goro kept the kiss chaste. Greedy.

Yet, he obliged him. He settled his hands on Akira’s hips, pushed more into the kiss, licking his way into his mouth and swallowing up the softer, breathless noises. He felt Akira’s hand curl against the nape of his neck, fist his shirt at the shoulder, and all too soon their kiss ended with heavy breathing and flushed cheeks, Akira looking delightfully dazed with kiss-reddened lips. 

Perfect. 

“Akira,” Goro crooned, pitching his voice into that adoring lilt that always got Akira perking up like a dog waiting for a treat, “You think you’ve won, don’t you?”

“I feel like I’m winning, yeah,” Akira said roughly, already leaning back in for another kiss.

Goro laughed, but didn’t evade the kiss Akira forcefully pressed against his mouth. The other kiss had been soft, warm and comfortable - this one was rough and _hungry_ , the sting of a bite against his bottom lip, Akira’s fingernails digging into his nape as he kept him close, possessively claiming him like he thought Goro would vanish if he didn’t hold tight enough. It always made his knees feel a little weak, that desperate _wanting,_ a coil of heat tightening in the pit of his stomach when they finally parted for air. His mouth felt bruised. 

Akira had a too-satisfied smirk on his face. Goro assumed he looked as dazed as he felt. 

“Mm, someone is pleased with themselves,” Goro murmured, his hands shifting on Akira’s hips, his fingers playfully following the curve of his ass. 

“Mhm,” Akira’s hand slid from Goro’s nape, to fiddle with his topmost shirt button, his smile just shy of cocky. There was a glitter of triumph in his eyes, and Goro could not _wait_ to fuck him over, just for that.

“Feel ready to get dressed yet?” he said huskily, already knowing the answer.

“Nah. I think I need to be seduced some more,” Akira said cheekily, clearly thinking he had him wrapped around his little finger. He did, but Goro was also a contrary fool who was used to blue balling himself. 

Goro smirked lazily, leaning in and pecking Akira chastely on the lips, “Pity.”

Then too quickly for Akira to react, he ducked down and promptly hoisted him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. 

“ _Wha-!”_ That high-pitched squawk of surprise was _beautiful_ , _“_ Goro!”

“That’s what you get for being cocky,” Goro said smugly, easily bracing against Akira’s squirming weight on his shoulder. It was uncomfortable and not at all sexy (his fucking _back_ ), but he endured it enough to haul his protesting partner to their shared bedroom, ‘accidentally’ knocking Akira’s flailing arm against the doorjamb along the way. 

“ _Ow_! Goro, you piece of-”

“This all could’ve been averted if you chose the easy way~” Goro sang, drawing to a halt before the bed. He gauged the distance and promptly threw Akira off of his shoulder.

Akira yelped loudly, the frame creaking loudly in protest as he hit the mattress and _bounced_. Once he settled, Akira remained sprawled on the bed, flushed and bewildered, his hair a mess and his pyjama shirt hitched up enough to reveal a delicious strip of well-toned abs. It was tempting to press the advantage, to pounce on him and pin him down and fuck him senseless - but they actually did have an errand to run today and Goro had to be the responsible one.

“I won’t tolerate any further delays,” he said in a no-nonsense voice, “Get dressed, Joker.” 

Akira quickly gathered his wits, scowling up at him - but he did, eventually, wriggle off the bed under Goro’s stern gaze and sulked to their closet. The amount of attitude he put in yanking the door open was impressive. 

While Akira got dramatically changed, Goro checked his phone. There were a few texts from work - ah, Mitsuru-san, ever the taskmaster - but he wasn’t required until later this evening. Hopefully it won’t take an entire day to shepherd Akira to Takemi Medical Clinic for his appointment, but he always did like upending his expectations. Goro just had to be strong and resolute. 

A quick train ride to Yongen-Jaya, a flu jab for the both of them, and they should be done in time for a pleasant brunch in Shibuya.

Goro sighed. 

Now that was being too optimistic. 

* * *

Miraculously Goro managed to drag Akira onto the train to Yongen-Jaya without too much trouble. It was just after rush hour, leaving enough seats empty for them to sit together. Akira’s leg was bouncing with rapid erraticness, his fingers drumming an uneven tempo against his thigh. He had his glasses on, the fluorescent light above reflecting off the lenses and hiding his expressive eyes from view, but Goro could see him chewing his bottom lip to ruin. 

“Stop that,” Goro said gruffly, reaching over to grab his hand and squeeze his fingers, “You’re going to bite through your lip.”

“Am not,” Akira mumbled, but he stopped biting his lip. 

Even now, years later, Goro hadn’t quite knocked the habit of wearing his gloves out in public. He was privately relieved, as he was certain Akira’s palms were sweaty, which, no matter how much he loved the man, was always extremely gross to endure when holding hands. He rubbed his thumb along Akira’s knuckles instead, patiently tolerating the iron-grip cutting off the circulation to his fingers.

This whole thing was, technically, his fault. He deserved having his hand crushed. 

He knew better than to verbalise that, though. 

“We can go to Leblanc, afterwards,” Goro blurted, mentally smacking himself at his abrupt and clumsy attempts at comfort, “Visit your overweight cat and eat curry.”

“He’s not a cat,” Akira said automatically, but he was drawn out of his chillingly blank stare and focused on Goro, “And he’s not _overweight._ ”

“He’s twice his size,” Goro said, “I could roll him out the door if I wanted.”

“Boss probably feeds him too much curry, yeah…” Akira said reluctantly, “But it’s bulk. He’s working out. Really.” 

“Uh huh. Where is your evidence to prove that claim?”

The argument of whether or not Morgana was fat or hench lasted until the train arrived at Yongen-Jaya. Akira grew quiet, his anxiety spiking to the point where Goro had to practically pry him out of his seat and push him out of the train doors before they shut and carried them onwards to Komazawa-Daigaku station. 

It was a strange reversal of roles. Normally Akira had his shit together being the most well-adjusted out of the two; but this small thing, this tiny, insignificant thing that wouldn’t have the average person blinking an eye at, reduced his partner into a shivering, blank-eyed mess. Goro knew why, understood viscerally and guiltily, but he felt pathetically ill-equipped in helping him through it, floundering awkwardly through comforting words or gestures. Akira always knew the right words to say, when to push, when to back off, how to touch… 

Goro just wasn't… that level of empathy didn't come easy to him.

Akira had a deathgrip on his hand and his jaw was set like he was preparing to march to his execution, his gaze fixed unseeingly ahead as Goro led him out of Yongen-Jaya station. When they stepped out from beneath the train station’s awning and into the morning sunlight, Akira began to look ill. A faint sheen of sweat made his curls stick to his forehead and cheeks, and he looked so pale Goro was genuinely concerned he was going to faint. 

“Akira,” he said, already spotting the warning signs and anxious to head them off, “do you need-”

“We’re not stopping,” Akira bit out stubbornly, “It’ll make it worse.”

“...alright,” Goro said neutrally, keeping a careful eye on him as they walked the familiar streets of Yongen-Jaya. A few people recognised them, mostly the elderly regulars of Leblanc who knew Akira as Sojiro’s weekend barista. The nosy locals stopped to happily greet them (Akira), something that made Goro impatiently grind his teeth as his boyfriend was too polite to brush them off, slowing their journey to a crawl in a treacle of pleasantries and small talk that inevitably culminated in:

_“You look a little under the weather, Kurusu-kun. I hope you’re penciled in for a flu jab with Dr. Takemi!”_

It _really_ wasn’t helping.

They got about as far as the second-hand store when Akira’s shattered nerves finally gave way. He halted so abruptly Goro almost yanked his arm out of its socket when he was too slow to realise, doing an awkward half-step backwards as he turned to his pale-faced partner. 

Akira was just standing there, feet planted, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the cracked pavement at their feet. The sunlight caught the lens of his glasses, but Goro didn't need to see his eyes to know he would have that awful, vacant stare - the one that chased on the heels of Akira jerking awake at night with a cut off gasp, hands trembling and flinching at sudden movements and touches, cowering from unseen fists and boots and needles.

Those nights were rare now, but that vacant stare always made Goro's guts feel like they were being eaten alive by maggots. To see it in stark daylight in the middle of Yongen-Jaya was like having yet another cognitive bullet snap his sternum.

“Akira?” Goro began cautiously, keeping very still as Akira shivered in place, knowing better than to reach for him. He learned his lesson the first few times he stupidly grabbed Akira in the aftermath of a nightmare, "Akira. We're in Yongen-Jaya. It’s daytime. Everything’s fine."

Akira shook his head - at what, Goro didn't know, thoughts tended to trip over each other in this state, he knew from experience. But then someone brushed against Akira's shoulder as they passed them by and his partner jerked into abrupt movement, walking backwards so rapidly while still keeping a white-knuckled on Goro's hand that he almost yanked him right off his feet in an embarrassing sprawl. Goro only _just_ managed to dig his heels in at the last minute and halt the frenzied retreat when Akira almost bulldozed over a passing couple.

 _“Ack-_ Akira, wait, wait!” Goro snapped, biting back the annoyance at the manhandling. He half-dragged, half-pushed Akira out of the flow of foot traffic and into the narrow side-street that led to Leblanc, pushing him close to the rusted shutters of a closed down store and trying not to take it personally when Akira flinched from his touch.

" _Breathe,"_ Goro ordered as Akira wheezed shakily in front of him, " _In_ , one, two, _out,_ one, two, _in_ , one, two, _out_ -"

It took a bit, but Akira clumsily began keeping pace with Goro's exaggerated deep breathing. His eyes didn't look so wild, and when they looked at Goro, they _looked_ at him, which was great because the empty stare was dragging up extremely unnerving memories of Akira in the interrogation room, staring vacantly in death-

 _not now!_ he growled at himself, slamming down the mental bulwark doors on _that_ nasty little nesting doll. The fact this was all tangled up from that same, fucked up event was a cosmic joke.

He tapered off his deep breathing coaching when Akira’s breathing stabilised and a bit of clarity returned to his eyes. He looked a bit shaky, but _there,_ which Goro supposed will have to do.

"...sorry," Akira rasped, his free hand pushing through his sweatdamp hair, " _Fuck,_ that was- a bad one."

"It happens," Goro said, because it did.

“Sorry,” Akira said again, while Goro stood there like a useless idiot, his hand still getting crushed in Akira's white-knuckled grip. He wiggled his fingers to try and keep the blood flow going, “It's over some stupid shit too-”

“It isn’t,” Goro snapped, mentally kicking himself when Akira hunched at the harsh tone. He forcibly gentled his next words; “This is… this type of reaction is normal.”

Ugh. That was a terrible comfort.

Akira said nothing. Damn it. 

He tried a different tactic; “If anyone freaks out over ‘stupid shit’, it’s me.”

Predictably, Akira frowned, his focus being drawn outwards from whatever self-deprecating thoughts he was no doubt flagellating himself with, “You don’t-”

“I shot you in the head,” Goro said bluntly, “Willingly, I might add. Yet, you’re always quick to assure me that it is _fine_ to have fucked up nightmares about it, as well as intrusive thoughts about doing it _again._ Why is it fine for me, and not you, Akira?”

Akira looked conflicted, clearly realising he had boxed himself into a trap just waiting to be sprung. His gaze skittered from Goro’s unflinching stare, always quick to shy away when the spotlight was on _his_ issues. It was like squeezing blood from a stone, sometimes, with him.

Meanwhile Goro vomited his vitriol and messed up issues on a hair-trigger, always quick to snap once his Detective Prince facade was ripped unceremoniously out of his hands. He fell back on the old ways of Unwanted Problem Child Goro to cope, the angry outbursts, the hair-trigger startle reflex to swing first, verbally or physically, the terrified, agonising determination to chase away any outstretched hand, as being the one to reject was easier than being rejected... it took months, no _years_ , of shedding that too small skin into something… less ugly, yet still rough. It was a metamorphosis that felt unending, but Goro could still see the minuscule progress occasionally. 

Akira gave in with a rough sigh, dipping his head low as he lifted a trembling hand, pushing up his glasses and pinching his nose, “Damn it.”

“I’m right,” Goro said smugly, knowing the tone would grate on Akira’s nerves. 

“Shut up,” Akira sniffed, and he discreetly wiped his eyes. Goro pretended not to notice, “You’re just- _ugh_. You’re insufferable.”

“It’s why we deserve each other,” Goro said, echoing a sentiment the Phantom Thieves stated often. 

“Yeah,” Akira lowered his hand, glancing in the direction of Takemi Medical Clinic. His eyes were red, glitters of unshed tears clinging to his eyelashes - Goro tamped down on the instinctive flare of panic at the sight. He wasn’t good with crying people, _especially_ if said crying person was Akira.

But everything in Akira’s expression and posture said he wasn’t ready for another attempt to go to the clinic. He could probably force himself - in fits, and starts, and that was the last resort if they started running out of daylight, but right now… well, it wasn’t even noon yet. Goro didn’t want to spend this morning dragging Akira by the scruff and forcing him to power through his trauma-induced phobia by sheer force of will. 

He probably would’ve done a decade ago, but not now.

_(“Your companions aren't likely to be thinking straight and may not respond to reassurance, Gemini. Use your intuition to find the best way to defuse the situation.”)_

Goro glanced down the narrow street, where Leblanc’s familiar shopfront could be seen. He had grown enough space inside the hollows of his heart to hold some traces of gentle patience.

“Let’s take a breather,” Goro said, quickly adding when Akira opened his mouth to protest, “Don’t argue with me, Akira, you look like shit.”

Akira frowned, looking conflicted, but after a moment some of the tension eased out of his shoulders, slumping with a heavy sigh, “...okay. Takemi did say to come in ‘whenever’.”

“And it _has_ been a while since I’ve had Boss’s coffee,” Goro said conversationally, grabbing Akira’s elbow and steering him towards said cafe, “Which still is, honestly, superior to yours.”

“Geeze, why don’t you marry Boss instead, since you like his coffee so much?”

Goro grimaced at the mental images that assaulted him at that idea, “Ew.”

Akira laughed at his open disgust, and his lingering, agitated tension completely eased when they approached the cafe. Goro tried not to think about how he still looked pretty even when his eyes were red from crying. The glasses hid the worst of it.

They paused outside of Leblanc - Akira ruffled his hair, took a few deep breaths, no doubt making sure his anxiety was safely sequestered away before barging into the cafe, arms spread wide as he called; “I’m home!”

Goro followed in his dramatic wake at a much more sedate pace, stifling a sigh. 

At Akira’s proclamation, three heads lifted: Sojiro from his crossword puzzle, Futaba’s peering over the top of her laptop, and Morgana’s groggily peeking up from behind the table, clearly having been dozing in Futaba’s lap. 

“...oh, it’s you,” Sojiro said after an awkward pause. 

“Wow,” Akira lowered his arms, “Here I am, visiting after a long absence-”

“We saw you last night, dork,” Futaba snorted, sitting up as straight as her gargoyle pose allowed in the booth she had claimed, “Your shadow, not so much. Hey, Akechi.”

“Good morning,” Goro said quietly. He always felt a little awkward when confronted with both Sakuras at once - the knowledge that he killed Wakaba dangled over his nape like a sword, leaving a knot of paranoid tension between his shoulder blades. Any sane person would covet revenge, or be coldly polite like Haru, yet… the Sakuras weren’t. That wasn’t to say they welcomed him with open arms but, well, they were accepting. That was enough, he supposed. 

“Your usuals, right?” Sojiro sighed, setting his crossword down and straightening up. It was remarkable how little he had changed in the past decade, except for streaks of silver in his hair; though he noticeably moved a little slower when he went to brew their coffee. 

“I can do that Boss,” Akira began. 

“Sit down, you,” Sojiro scolded, “I’m not so old I can’t make my favourite customers their drinks.”

“Yeah, he’s not decrepit _yet_ ,” Futaba said, hiding a smile when Sojiro gave her an exasperated look.

Akira shuffled his feet. Most likely he wanted to distract himself with brewing and now didn’t know what to do with himself, so Goro sighed and shoved him into the booth opposite Futaba. Ignoring his partner’s indignant squawking, he slid onto the stool closest to the booth, resting an elbow on the bar as everything settled around him. 

Leblanc. Despite the lingering awkwardness of his crimes souring the air, it was still his favourite place in the world. 

Akira, Futaba and Morgana were immediately drawn into a conversation, thick as thieves even after all this time. At this point Akira may as well change his family name to Sakura with how thoroughly he’d been adopted by them - a fact that made a petty, childish side of him squirm with sick jealousy. Ten years ago, that might have made him cruel, but now… 

He’s mellowed. Grown soft, his jagged edges losing their bite. It wasn’t that he discovered kindness, or truly repented for his hideous acts when he was young and stupid, but more that he discovered how _exhausting_ and empty and dissatisfying it was, to keep hating. 

It kept him going as a teenager, those hot embers of rage and resentment, but as an adult, working alongside the Shadow Ops, learning to cooperate with other Persona users entirely separate from the Metaverse fiasco, falling headfirst into a whirlwind romance with Akira that somehow didn’t implode within the first few months, confronting his crimes under Shido’s orders… 

Hate felt pathetic, after experiencing all of that.

Not to say this had been an overnight realisation for a younger him. No, it had been ugly, and long, and tiring, and painful… if he had to figure it out all over again, he doubted he could. His heart was a fragile, weak thing, and Akira held the dying remains of it. If he crushed it, well…

“You don’t have to be so quiet,” Sojiro said, setting a cup of coffee in front of him, “I keep telling you, no one’s going to bite your head off here.”

“Mm,” Goro said non-committedly. 

Sojiro sighed the same way he sighed for his kids, moving away to work on Akira’s order. 

Goro never really understood Sojiro. Despite having every reason to despise him, to cast him out, Sojiro tolerated his presence enough to be an amicable host without Akira having to be present. He didn't really know what he had done to deserve it, and the one time he carefully broached the subject:

_("If it weren't you, someone else's hand would have pulled the trigger," Sojiro said, not looking up from his crossword puzzle. There were streaks of grey at his temples, "Shido wanted her dead, and he had more goons than just you."_

_Goro absorbed this. Wakaba had been the test run for whether it was possible to murder someone via the Metaverse. It stood to reason Shido would have had a backup plan in case it didn't work out._

_"But," he said, "I still did it."_

_"How old were you? Fourteen?"_

_"Almost sixteen," Goro said, like a year was that vital of a difference, "but that's no excuse. It's old enough to know murder is wrong."_

_Sojiro stared at his crossword puzzle for a long time._

_"Teenagers do stupid things," Sojiro finally said, "That's why adults are meant to look out for them."_

_He finally looked up, "Do you need a refill?"_

_Goro looked down at his empty cup, feeling as if he had missed an unsaid message, "Yes, please.")_

He didn’t get it. It wasn’t the unconditional forgiveness of Akira, but it was some sort of forgiveness all the same. It was beyond his comprehension.

Goro picked up his coffee, letting the heat seep through the leather of his gloves as he watched Futaba spin her laptop around to point something out to Akira. Morgana hopped onto the table, a little more rotund than he was back during his Phantom Thieves days, and headbutted Akira’s arm for ear scratches. They were in their own little bubble, one Goro felt like he was intruding on, so he took out his phone and busied himself with that instead. 

This tended to be the way of it, whenever Futaba was here. Goro would be mostly ignored by her for a bit, but eventually she would gradually engage him in conversation about something light and mundane. Akira fussed about it privately, but to be honest, it was refreshing compared to Sojiro’s incomprehensible forgiveness. More what he expected.

Her cautious acceptance of him was easier to swallow, because:

_("I'm not saying I forgive you, because I don't," Futaba told her laptop, not once looking at Goro sitting as non-threateningly as possible two stools down from her._

_"I don't expect you to," Goro said, because he would suspect her of being replaced by a pod person if she did._

_"It's just really messed up," Futaba said in a quieter tone. She was huddled so close to her screen her nose was almost touching it, "The whole thing, and I know, if it wasn’t you, it’d be someone else who would’ve..."_

_Goro said nothing._

_"I wish you were evil," Futaba whispered, "This would be easier if you were evil like him."_

_"I'm sorry," Goro said, and it wasn't sincere but it wasn't_ insincere _either, "that I didn't have the decency to keep things black and white."_

_Futaba laughed, a quiet, bitter noise._

_"Yeah, I’ll never forgive you for that, for being, for being an actual three-dimensional character," she said once her strange laughter died down, "But… I don’t think I_ hate _you. Maybe."_

_She straightened up and closed her laptop; "But if you hurt Akira again, that's it. No more chances."_

_"No more chances," Goro echoed softly.)_

Well, because she didn’t forgive him at all. That was comforting. 

“Hey, Akechi,” Futaba said, as Sojiro shuffled over to her booth to give Akira his coffee, “Stop haunting the stool and help me teach Akira why his ship preferences suck.” 

“Pink and Green are a _good_ ship, okay,” Akira huffed. 

“Pink and _Red_ are a good ship, okay,” Futaba mocked with a nasally imitation of his voice. 

“Obviously, it’s Yellow and White who are the best!” Morgana interjected. 

“You don’t even watch Featherman Ultra!” Futaba snapped, pinching the cat’s cheeks. 

“Kids, c’mon,” Sojiro groaned, “And what did I tell you about letting the cat on the table?”

Futaba quickly scooped up the protesting Morgana, settling him back on her lap. 

“You’re all uncultured philistines,” Goro said, “The superior ship is obviously Red and Grey.”

“Oh my _god,_ ” Futaba made a face, “I forgot you’re an ‘ _enemies to lovers’_ fanboy.”

Akira let out a suspicious cough, “I mean, considering…” 

“ _Eurgh,_ ” Futaba covered her glasses with her palms, “No! I don’t want to think about you two _doing that_.”

“Futaba,” Akira purred, his tone alight with mischief, “We’re _married_. You know that means we’ve _consummated._ ”

“Nooooo! You’re chaste! _Chaste_! Your marriage is pure!”

Goro observed Futaba’s cringing squirming with morbid fascination, “You’ve snooped on our search history, how do you think we’re-”

“ _LA LA LA LA!_ ” Futaba slapped her hands over her ears, “NO I DIDN’T! I PURGED THAT FROM MY MEMORY!”

Akira instantly cracked up, and Goro muffled a few suspicious sounding coughs into his hand. That had been one way to stop Futaba’s nosy snooping into their lives, though it had resulted in a _very awkward_ phone call from one Sojiro asking why Futaba was wailing about her _‘virgin eyes being soiled by my freak of a brother’_.

Sojiro muttered as he retreated to behind the counter, picking up his crossword puzzle - but Goro thought he saw him smiling before his head tilted away from them. 

“I told you there was a reason I moved in with you,” Morgana said in a tone that implied he had seen truly harrowing experiences during his time at the Akechi-Kurusu household, complete with a thousand-yard stare, “You should’ve heard them when Akechi got out of jail. The first night, they-”

“Er, Mona,” Akira quickly said. 

“The first night,” Goro picked up the slack when Morgana failed to continue, a vindictive smile curling his mouth as both Akira and Futaba stared at him in trepidation, “Hmm, was that the night when you all but begged me to fuck you through the wall _-”_

“Goro,” Akira groaned quietly, the tips of his ears turning red.

“Yeah!” Morgana exclaimed, “It was that one! I think you guys broke the dresser.”

“Oh my _god,_ Akira,” Futaba said, “The _dresser_?”

“The dresser?” Akira echoed, before he remembered with a distinct air of mortification, “Oh yeah... the _dresser_...”

“It was shoddily made,” Goro excused quickly. 

“Oh, totally. It, er, practically fell apart on its own.”

“They broke it,” Morgana whispered _sotto voce_ to Futaba. 

“Oh, come on, Mona,” Akira huffed, “What were you even doing, eavesdropping on us?”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Morgana squawked, “I was _sleeping_ in _bed_ when you guys all charged in and started eating each other’s faces!”

Futaba snorted, clasping a hand over her mouth as Akira began to loudly protest that _no,_ they hadn’t been _eating each other’s faces_ , they had been _kissing,_ with a passion that was totally normal when you hadn’t seen each other in literal _months_ , and why didn’t Mona say anything? 

“Don’t you know how _awkward_ that would’ve been!?” Morgana wailed. 

Goro hid a smile into his cup, watching Akira gesture wildly as he tried to defend his non-existent virtue from the judgemental eyes of his cat. It was how he imagined a bunch of siblings would interact: friendly squabbles and teasing jabs, a comfortable family that all loved each other. 

He was content enough to exist on the fringes of that. 

* * *

Alas, all good things eventually came to an end. It slowly crept into the lunch hour, and a small trickle of regulars filtered in for Sojiro’s curry. Unceremoniously, they were shooed out into the muggy air of approaching autumn to make way for paying customers, Futaba shouldering her laptop bag with Mona cradled against her chest. 

“Well, I better get back to work,” she sighed reluctantly, “Got networks to break into, people’s lives to ruin.”

“It’s nice to see one of us upholding the criminal ways of our youth, now that we’re old,” Akira said solemnly. 

“We’re not old, and she’s _legally_ ruining people’s lives,” Goro said, “There’s nothing criminal about it.” 

“I’m a criminal at heart,” Futaba deadpanned, “Even though I’m the only one here without a rap sheet.”

“I don’t have one,” Morgana grumbled. 

“You’re a _cat._ You can’t do crimes,” Futaba tutted, pinching one pudgy cheek, much to the cat’s protest, “You could shoot a guy and you’d get away with it.”

“Please don’t tell Mona to shoot people,” Akira said, “Anyway, it was nice seeing you, Futaba. I’ll catch you tomorrow for our game night?”

“Yeah, sure, I love killing brain cells with pug parties,” Futaba said. She glanced over at Goro, her lips pursing together for a brief moment, “You can come too, if you want.”

Well, that was a first, “I’ll… see if I have time,” Goro said blankly, caught wrong-footed.

Futaba nodded resolutely, and pivoted on her heel to go home without much as a goodbye. Morgana warbled one over her shoulder in her stead.

“Hey~ I told you she’s warming up to you,” Akira said, gently nudging him with his elbow, “Slowly.”

“After ten years,” Goro said a little dryly, feeling strangely troubled by the thought, “But it’s a start, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Akira’s shoulders lifted a little, “So.”

“So,” Goro echoed, touching Akira’s elbow and slowly turning him around, urging him into a slow walk, “Takemi.”

“Takemi,” Akira mumbled, and all the progress in Leblanc fell away as his earlier anxiety came rushing to the fore. It wasn’t the ill, sweaty nerves of before, though he did blanch a little. Yet, there was a resolute glint in his eye, more steel to his spine that wasn’t there this morning. 

Something in Goro was bitter that his presence alone hadn’t been enough to give Akira that courage - had probably contributed to the stress, in some subconscious way. But he couldn’t complain. This _was_ indirectly his fault. 

“Just a flu jab, just a flu jab, just a flu jab,” Akira whispered as they entered the main street and walked past the second-hand store, his hand cutting off all blood flow to Goro’s fingers once more, “Just a flu jab, just a flu jab, just a flu jab.”

Goro said nothing. He didn’t want to disrupt whatever zen-state Akira had tricked himself into. 

A quiver went through Akira when they halted in front of the unassuming clinic. Goro saw him inhale and exhale, his chin tilting upwards and gaze fixing somewhere beyond the building, looking so much like Joker in that moment he half-expected his Metaverse outfit to bloom into being.

“Ready?” Goro murmured. 

“Yeah,” Akira nodded and let go of his wrist, stuffing his hands into his pockets and slouching his shoulders in an impressive show of lazy confidence, “I’m good.”

A lie, but Goro let it slide. He studied his partner’s face for a selfish moment, the wry half-smile Akira sent his way, how his glasses didn’t nullify the piercing quality of his eyes. Akira was pale, and irrationally afraid of what was to come, but he still had the guts to face it. Goro had always been envious of that.

He gestured dramatically to the door, “In you go, then.”

“Aw, I’m not gonna cut and run when you turn your back,” Akira complained, but he indulged him. He walked up the few steps, hesitated at the door, and then firmly pushed open it, striding inside with the same swagger as a Phantom Thief on their way to steal someone’s heart. 

* * *

In the end, it was all very anticlimactic. 

After ten years of this bullshit, Takemi had a routine that helped ease the process for everyone involved. The main issue was _getting_ Akira into the clinic, after all, a burden which consistently fell on Goro’s heavy shoulders. The injections only took less than five minutes, even on Akira’s worst days. 

Having served time as her guinea pig, Akira already trusted Takemi a great deal. While that didn’t override his phobia entirely, it meant he wasn’t practically crawling up the walls when they were ushered into her patient room, Akira holding Goro’s hand so tight it felt like he’d need surgery to have it removed later. 

“You know, I have another medicine I’m developing,” Takemi said conversationally, looking eerily unchanged despite being in her late thirties, “I wonder if I could tempt my reliable guinea pig to volunteer again?”

“Sorry, Takemi,” Akira said, his voice a little too high-pitched, wrung out, to hit casual, “But I’m not as sturdy as I used to be.”

“He keeps saying he’s old,” Goro snitched, just to be a brat.

Akira hushed him in a panic, and Takemi’s eyebrows rose as she tapped her needle in clear view, “Old, huh? What does that make me, then?”

“Ah… hahaha…” Akira eked out weakly, not even having the courage to attempt a coherent reply.

“Coward,” Goro said, and promptly got stabbed by Takemi’s needle, “Ow.”

“If you feel ‘old’,” Takemi said, “then it’s a sign you’re not keeping your body healthy, my little guinea pig. Too much junk food, too little sleep, too little exercises… all these pile up and age you beyond your years.”

Goro opened his mouth, but Akira fixed him with a _look._ He shut it. 

“Done,” Takemi said, and disposed of the used needle, “You’re up next, guinea pig.” 

Akira’s body went taut, then forcibly relaxed, his eyes far too bright as he looked from Takemi to Goro and back to Takemi again, “Okay.” 

“Akira, look at me,” Goro ordered.

Akira did so - this, too, was part of the routine. 

Goro caught and held his partner’s gaze, while in the background Takemi prepped Akira’s injection. The solution, he found, was to make the experience as detached from the original event as much as possible: for Akira, it was being crowded, being held down as some _fucker_ jammed a needle into the junction of his neck until his mind spiralled apart, trapped in a cold, grey room with nothing but vicious fists and kicks to meet him. 

In Takemi’s clinic, there was the neat yet cramped patient room with colourful charts on the walls and models of various joints and body structures for easy reference. There was Takemi herself, someone Akira trusted, and there was Goro, already having gone first and shown the injection didn’t contain poison or whatever, existing in his space without violent intention. 

It was as far removed from the Interrogation Room as it could be. 

“Akira,” he murmured, his voice pitched low and soft, “Your English is awful.” 

Akira blinked, then predictably bristled, “It is _not_.”

“When we went to that restaurant two days ago and you ordered in English,” Goro said adoringly, “It was _terrible._ The secondhand embarrassment… it was fatal.”

“My English is perfect,” Akira said in English, a bold claim considering that his simple sentence had been a little stilted, too carefully enunciated to sound natural. Goro clucked his tongue hearing it. 

“Mm, it’s a little rough around the edges, _dear,_ ” he returned in kind, smug at how _natural_ he sounded. He regularly practiced his English, enough to sand down the sharp edges of his accent at least, and he smiled brightly when Akira’s eyes narrowed at him, oblivious to Takemi holding up a syringe to check it for bubbles. 

“I will have you know,” Akira continued valiantly in the foreign language, looking increasingly annoyed when Goro didn’t bother hiding his amused grin at his strong accent, “I was the best at tongue-twisters in my English class.”

Considering his class had Ann, Goro let his silent stare speak for him. 

“...second best,” Akira amended.

“Alright, Akira,” Goro said, humouring his partner’s ill-advised boast, “Prove it. Tell me a tongue twister.”

Just past Akira, Takemi was disinfecting the injection site with a distinct air of exasperation. She was too used to their shit at this point. At least Akira was too distracted to really pay attention to her. 

“How much wood wuda chunk- fuck-” Akira stumbled. 

“Well done,” Goro said dryly.

“I was warming up,” Akira grumbled in Japanese, before trying again in English; “How much wood _would_ a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? He would chuck, er, he would…?”

“He would chuck,” Goro continued when Akira visibly struggled to recall the rest of the tongue-twister, “he would, as much as he could, and chuck as much wood as a woodchuck would, if a woodchuck could chuck wood.”

Akira huffed quietly. Goro’s pronunciation had been flawless, “Show off.”

“Second best at tongue-twisters in your class, huh?” Goro teased, seeing Takemi line up the needle for Akira’s arm, “When was that? Preschool?”

“It was- _ow_.”

“I’m done,” Takemi said after a few short seconds, moving away and turning to dispose of her needle, “So, you want to continue your strange flirting elsewhere…”

“Thanks, Takemi,” Akira said, and he managed to let go of Goro’s hand to put his jacket back on - something Goro did as well. His partner had a wry smile on his face, his gaze lowered, “I know it’s silly doing this every time-”

Takemi cut him off with a flat look, “How many times do I have to say it? It isn’t silly.”

Akira ducked his head a fraction, and Goro fought the urge to roll his eyes. He was so thickheaded.

They left not long after that, the doctor all but chasing them out with mutters of _‘suffocating under the weird tension you guys bring’_. The early afternoon sun greeted them, and Akira already looked leagues better, as if he was relieved of an unbearably heavy burden and could now wander free without a care in the world. 

“We should enjoy the rest of our day,” Akira said, “You want to spend a few hours in Kichijoji?”

Goro was too tired for Kichijoji. His thoughts kept drifting to the late night shift he had waiting for him later, and it wasn’t like Akira would take the rejection personally if he said ‘no’. His partner had many friends in Tokyo, many who could set aside their immediate concerns and tasks to hang out with him while Goro slinked off to cocoon himself in their bed. 

As always, he felt the squirming feeling of jealousy in his belly at the idea of ‘handing off’ Akira to someone else, but he was getting better at stomping that petty worm flat when it began whispering to him. 

“I’m tired,” Goro said, “I think I’ll return home.”

“Oh, yeah, you had to put up with my shit all morning,” Akira said sheepishly, fiddling with his hair, “Sorry.”

Goro ‘gently’ stomped on his foot.

“ _Ow_!”

“I’ll see you at home,” Goro said, giving Akira his best innocent Detective Prince smile, complete with sparkles, “If you decide to stay out late, call me so I don’t worry, Akira-kun~”

“You know I find that creepy.”

“Mean,” Goro let his smile shift into something more genuine, “I’ll see you later, Joker.”

“Enjoy your nap, Crow.” 

They parted ways from there, Akira loitering outside Takemi’s as he took out his phone, no doubt ready to go through his long contacts to see who would be willing to hang out on a Sunday afternoon. There was still the petty clench in his belly, the mean whisper of how easy Akira capitulated, how quickly he took out his phone to look up other people to socialise with instead, but Goro smothered those intrusive thoughts without batting an eye. 

As terrifying as it was to admit it, he trusted Akira with his everything at this point. Those petty intrusive thoughts could go fuck themselves.

* * *

Ever the light sleeper, Goro snapped awake when he heard the door to their apartment close.

He waited, holding his breath until Akira’s familiar voice called a soft _“I’m home”_ , and immediately relaxed back against the pillows. Drowsiness clung to his consciousness like cobwebs, his eyelids too heavy to open as he rolled onto his side, burying his face into his pillow and exhaling softly. He listened to Akira bustle about the apartment. 

He must’ve dozed off again, because he woke up an indeterminable amount of time later to Akira gently poking him on the shoulder, murmuring; “Wakey wakey, sleepyhead.”

“Mnnff,” Goro said intelligibly.

Akira laughed quietly and the mattress dipped slightly where he sat down, his fingers pushing into Goro’s dishevelled hair. The rhythmic tugging, fingernails gently massaging his scalp, was enough to get him purring; low, soft contented noises that he would viciously deny ever making. 

“S’time?” Goro managed to ask, his voice rough with sleep. 

“It’s a bit after five,” Akira said, his thumb stroking along the sharp line of his cheekbone, “You have another hour ‘til your alarm goes off.” 

“Mm,” an hour was good.

Akira stopped petting his hair and stood up, and Goro unconsciously tracked his movements around the bedroom. The rustle of fabric - getting undressed - creak of their laundry hamper, the quiet ‘ _crck’_ of joints clicking from a stretch- ah, yeah, there was Akira’s low _‘I’ve just done a huge and satisfying stretch’_ groan - and the scuff off heels against the carpet until the mattress dipped once more, Akira flopping dramatically onto the bed just behind him. 

Goro felt himself smile when Akira spooned him, a firm thigh shamelessly thrown over his hip, their bodies pressed as flush as they could be. He rested his hand on that thigh, feeling the taut, lean muscle there that Akira maintained long after his Phantom Thief days. He had to, if he wanted to keep up with Ryuji whenever they did their ‘male bonding time’ workouts that left Akira a noodle-legged puddle on the floor whenever he dragged his useless corpse home.

“Hey,” Akira murmured against his nape, “Thanks for today, Goro.”

Goro stayed quiet. He could say a few things, like; _‘don’t mention it’,_ or _‘well, I’m to blame for your crippling phobia of needles so it’s the least I could do’,_ or even _‘you’re welcome’._ He didn’t want to, though, because he had said those things over the course of the past ten years, and they never settled right when spoken aloud. Too trite. Just empty words that didn’t properly convey everything.

Akira didn’t mind the lack of response. He nuzzled into the crook of his neck, squeezing his hip with his thigh, and Goro let the moment pass. 

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he murmured, “I’ll be getting up in an hour.”

“I just want to snuggle,” Akira crooned shamelessly, and laughed when Goro wriggled in his arms, “Aw, come on! We’re married, don’t be all shy~”

“Shut up,” Goro huffed, red-faced and hating that such stupid terms could make him fluster and squirm like a fucking moron discovering affection for the first time. Ten years of this shit, and he was still weak to it. 

“Fine, fine,” Akira kissed his shoulder in apology and, miraculously, settled down without another teasing quip. Goro, suspiciously, relaxed and sighed. 

And hid a smile into his pillow. 


End file.
